


Instinct and Immunity

by orphan_account



Series: Resurrection [1]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Consent Issues inherent to the pairing, Dark Thoughts, F/M, Knotting, Mentions of Voyeurism, Multiple Orgasms, POV Peter Hale, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Reality distorted through Peter's thought process, Rough Sex, Set in some nebulous future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and gives him a wary, sweeping glance. She finally breaks the silence. “I never figured you for a romantic.” Her voice is sharp and unforgiving.  “Or were those the only clean clothes you could find in that hovel you call a house?”</p>
<p>She knows he's always conscious of his image, immaculate as hers,  since vanity is a weakness they share. She knows this just as much as she knows the long, leather trench coat and red button down he's wearing are deliberate. </p>
<p>He pulls back her strawberry blonde hair from where it was shielding her neck and proceeds to caress her skin.  </p>
<p>“But sweetheart,” He mocks. “It's our anniversary. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct and Immunity

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick, un-beta'd Pydia prompt fill to break things up a little as I work on my Sterek stuff. As a warning, this is about 9/10ths feelings and 1/10th porn. I blame that on it being my first time writing Pydia. I promise I'll write some more hardcore smut at some point. 
> 
> For the purpose of this PWP Lydia is on birth control and werewolves don't carry STDs.

Lydia Martin doesn't belong in the forest. Her sharp black heels and turquoise silk dress couldn't be more out of place. She belongs in the lobby of some upscale hotel or, Peter thinks, with a hint of cruelty, in the front seat of a Porsche. She doesn't belong with all the dirt and fallen leaves littering the forest floor or all the dead things they hide, but she is there, heart beating a little fast, waiting on one of those dead things.

He expects a pretense for her presence, a flippant word, an accusation, _anything_ , but Lydia never likes to be predictable. She likes it even less than she likes being straightforward. Peter knows this, knows all the little tricks of her personality, because he stole that knowledge. 

He approaches her silently, even knowing she can sense him, and slides one rough hand up the smooth silk of her dress exactly like a thief evaluating his plunder. She tolerates it, safe from within the confines of her haughty defiance. She defies him to find an imperfection and she knows he can't. 

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and gives him a wary, sweeping glance. She finally breaks the silence. “I never figured you for a romantic.” Her voice is sharp and unforgiving. “Or were those the only clean clothes you could find in that hovel you call a house?”

She knows he's always conscious of his image, immaculate as hers, vanity is a weakness they share. She knows this just as much as she knows the long, leather trench coat and red button down he's wearing are deliberate. 

He pulls back her strawberry blonde hair from where it was shielding her neck and proceeds to caress her skin. 

“But sweetheart,” He mocks. “It's our anniversary. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture.”

It's been almost a year since that night on the lacrosse field. There's been enough time for seasons to change, for death and rebirth to take their course, naturally as always, and unnaturally twice over. 

She makes a dismissive noise low in her throat and he imagines she's rolling her eyes even if he can't see as he's bent forward to run his nose along the curve of her delicate neck. She doesn't smell like Jackson anymore and he feels this sort of hollow aching pleasure that's more akin to a kind of diluted triumph than it is to any kind of genuine happiness. 

Her scent tells him that he is, at the moment, her only acolyte. She is a goddess, after all, capable of raising the dead and bringing men back from the void. 

Lydia, the truth of her, was not what he expected. He chose her for her immunity and expected to find her hollow inside beneath her hard and beautiful shell. He burrowed in to hide his soul there and found something remarkable, and damn near indomitable, though he'd done it in the end. 

Jackson's gone. That's probably half the reason she's here and he's been generous with that figure. 

The forest is a compromise. It's somewhere between the charred remains of his home, _his grave_ , and the spotless white cotton _lies_ of her bedsheets. Not that taking her in her childhood bedroom doesn't have some morbid appeal. It does. If there were any nails left to hammer into the coffin of the man he once was he would jump at the chance to defile her there amidst the trappings of the person she pretends to be. 

Her fingers dip into his belt and pull him close.

It's not the first time they've done this and it won't be the last. She slips off his coat with practiced ease and he spreads it on the ground beside them. She enfolds into his arms like she has before in several different forms. The alpha, the young man, the rotting corpse, the resurrected....

Her eyes are bright and challenging. Her fear is familiar and subdued. He lets his claws hold her by the nape of her neck and draws her close, claiming her lips, and tasting her long and slow. 

It's strange to feel. He doesn't feel like he used to. Everything now is warped, twisted. He's been reduced to something charred, ashen, and everything he touches is smeared with that and becomes gritty. Lydia is bright, soft, smooth, and alive but she's covered in ash and grave dirt everywhere he puts his hands. He buries her with the fervor of his lust. 

His hands find the zipper of her dress and ease it down. The silk rustles as she shimmies out of it with movements too graceful for her age. She's naked underneath but for a pair of black lace panties. Her breasts are full, warm, and far too youthful under his large and rough hands. 

It doesn't matter though. He's not going to pretend he's conflicted as he traces his hands over the curve of her waist. Human rules of morality are not among the things that had the fortitude to withstand the fire. He's more than willing to take what he wants. Instinct, need, and desire survived death and nothing else save for memories. 

He needs Lydia, he desires Lydia, and instinct tells him to take her. Peter won't argue. 

Lydia unbuttons his shirt with skillful fingers and runs her hands over his chest. She starts with the abs he knows she loves. They're as firm and developed, more so even, than those of the younger men she's been with. She likes that. She likes the thickness of his waist, the firmness of his muscles, and the power she can sense in them. She makes her way up to the dusting of chest hair he refuses to shave in spite of her teasing and she lets out a pointed, dramatic sigh and send him a judging look. He smirks in reply and raises his eyebrows. They've had this conversation. 

She even likes that too, the chest hair he refuses to do anything about, even if she won't admit it. She loves that he's not some young pup so lost to his lust he'll comply with her every whim. No, he's a _challenge_ , and he won't change just to please her. 

Peter knows why she comes to him. Her lust she could satisfy anywhere she wanted. If she just needed a warm body to distract her from the gnawing ache of Jackson's departure she could find many warmer than he. 

He knows he's an object of her curiosity. Her sharp and inquisitive nature can't help but be drawn to him, to analyze him, to piece together all the parts she doesn't understand. She see in him a promise of power and knowledge and things greater than anything she's used to experiencing. She, like all great minds, wants the truth. She wants to understand the universe and where he, anomaly that he is, fits into it. 

She wants to take magic apart atom by atom and understand it, conquer it; She'll never be satisfied until she does and he's a wonderful place to start. 

He eases off his shirt as she undoes his belt. She doesn't fumble with it, oh no, not Lydia. She never fumbles with anything. The full moon shines down on her smooth skin, scarred only where _he_ scarred it, he thinks with some satisfaction. 

The moon still calls to him as strongly as it ever did and everything he is, everything he feels, is so heightened tonight under its influence that he almost, _almost_ , feels fully alive again, but he's still touching her through that gritty screen, that ashen veil, that he can't quite fully part. It doesn't matter though. He wants her and he'll take her regardless. He'd find a way, even if he was as cold and dead as he should be.

She slides his pants down as she slips to her knees. Her discarded silk dress serving as a perfect cushion. She lets him thread his clawed fingers in her bright strawberry hair that burns softly in the moonlight. She really is too beautiful. That alone would make her deadly to lesser men. When her cunning is factored in, it's not even debatable, she's powerful and she's a predator even if she hasn't fully realized it yet. 

His cock slips between soft glossed lips and if he growls, it's purely for her benefit. Lydia always likes a touch of the dramatic. It gets her wet when he puts on a little show, and Peter is nothing if not accommodating. 

He's not vain enough to think she loves him. He knows, in fact, that she doesn't, _not yet,_ a little part of him says, though he's not sure if either of them are capable of something as selfless as love. He's almost sure he can't, not after everything he's lost, and while Lydia is still young enough, still innocent enough, that she might...Jackson's departure after everything has had more of an impact on her than even she's able to fully grasp. 

He wants her to love him, or at least as close as she can get. He _needs_ her to, because love is a power so much stronger than sex, and sex is powerful enough on its own. It's enough to keep her coming back to him but it's not enough to protect him from her. 

Lust is his best weapon right now. He wants her, he wants to make her think he owns her. If he's lucky it'll keep her distracted long enough that she doesn't realize she owns him. Literally and figuratively, his existence hinges on her will and her whim. It's her own magic that she hasn't even begun to understand. He bound himself to her, and bought his life through her, gambling that she'd never discovered the influence that gave her over him. 

If he awes her with his strength, his age, and his knowledge, if he dominates her and keeps her restrained with fear and arousal, maybe she won't realize that he's her slave. But if he makes her love him, as impossible as that may seem, he'll never have to fear her. 

The truly frightening idea, however, is that he might fall first. In spite of all of his hesitance to believe it is possible he knows she's more thoroughly imbedded in his soul than he is in hers. Beautiful, incredibly intelligent, and just as strong as he is, he knows Lydia is likely to come out of this less fractured than he is. 

For now though, he focuses on the moment, on giving her what she wants and he needs. 

He lays out beneath her on top of his jacket. Fangs and claws extended, he waits, silently baiting her with a dare he knows she'll take. 

She slips out of her underwear and climbs on top of him. He can smell her arousal as she takes in the sight of him in his beta form. He can hear the subtle beat of fear in her heart that should be a contradiction to her desire, but it's not at all. 

He gives her the illusion of control as she straddles him, aligning herself over his cock and slowly, teasingly, pushing him into herself. She's tight and there's resistance in spit of her wetness. He can hear the hitch in her breath as she bears down to take him in. He fights his instinct to grab her hips and shove up into her with bruising force. He likes to let her start. He likes to see the calm, cool confidence she shows her human men. He likes to see the way she takes control, the way she rocks down onto him, and runs her hands over him like he's territory she's marked. 

He knows the rhythm she sets would be strong by their standards, her other lovers, but he's not like them. She would be driving them out of their minds already but Peter needs more. 

He's had over six years of mourning. For a moment he wants not to think. He wants to lose control. 

He wants to lose himself in the scent of her, in the feeling of her flesh, in the shine of her hair, and the sound of her stifled moans. He wants to take, to claim, to rut, and to dominate and to know he's the only one who can do that to her. 

He waits a little longer, thrusting up into her with gentle human speed, playing the role of the man with practiced ease. It's not like he hasn't had human lovers before...but now isn't the time for memories. 

When he's had enough of playing, he rolls her over and pins her beneath him with his teeth at her neck. Her hands find their way to his waist and her legs wrap tight around him. 

He knows that when he really starts to rut into her he'll have to throw her legs over his shoulders and hold her in place. 

She's strong though, she's fit, and she keeps up with him for longer than he'd expected her too. She meets every hard, powerful thrust as best she can. 

Lydia is mostly silent but for her heavy breathing. She makes him work for every whimper and moan and he likes it like that. He knows how she is with the others, the boys she wastes her time with, he's listened and watched and memorized the sounds of her coy, deceptive noises carefully calculated to inflate the ego of her hapless victim. 

He's nothing like those boys and there's too much honesty, (bitter honesty, but honesty still) between them for that. 

He relishes the way she moans and squeezes tight around him. The feeling of her muscles contracting around him as she cums for the first time. The movement of her hands are more erratic now, they thread through his hair and dance across his body everywhere they can reach as he thrusts into her with single-minded focus. 

He brings one hand up from her hips to cup her breasts and tease her nipples carefully with his claws. She has no idea how delicate he's being. He knows what they look like, sprawled on the forest floor with him crouched over her, rutting into her with his claws and fangs extended. 

They're every bit the portrait of a hunter's nightmare. The young, seemingly innocent human girl, a portrait of youth, being ravished by a monster twice her age. 

It's the kind of thing he might have masturbated to in his own adolescence but he's too old to buy into it now. 

It looks like he's being savage, brutally rough, but the outside observer would have no way of knowing what he was truly capable of. 

He can admit though, that there's a part of him, a dark, primal part that _wants_ to be that rough, that wants to fuck her until she's bruised and bloody and broken...possibly beyond repair. 

He might one day. It's always possible. Maybe the image they paint is more accurate than he thinks.

He increases his speed and he can feel her legs starting to slip. He can smell the slight hint of fear and discomfort as he stays just barely on the right side of pleasure and pain. 

He pushes her legs over his shoulders and finally lets go of his grip on her neck so he can hunch over her, curling her under him completely, and letting out a growl not muffled by her flesh. She loves it just like he knew she would. He wraps one clawed hand into her hair, and places the other by her head, supporting himself and giving her a perfect view of his long fingers and sharp claws. 

He smells the spike of her arousal as she cums again. She grips his hair tightly this time in a desperate attempt to ground herself. He knows at the speed he's going that she's out of control completely. She can't grip her thighs around his waist, she can't bear down, she can only let the pleasure rips through her, helpless. 

She lets out a cry that's as close as she ever gets to an honest scream. He knows he could make her scream though. He's made her scream before, albeit, not in this context. 

The memory of her screaming, of her blood in his mouth, and the feeling of her scarred flesh beneath his hands tips him over the edge. He pushes in deep and holds as his own orgasm comes in full force and he can feel his knot beginning to form. 

Oh she's vocal now, thrashing beneath him, as his knot swells and she cums once more in rapid succession. He's pumping her full as she spasms on the hard length of his cock and he hears he bite out a curse as his knot locks them in place. 

“ _Damn it, Peter!_ ”

He knows he's going to have to buy her something expensive to make up for knotting her in a place like this. He listens to her giving him a verbal lashing, completely unaffected. He leans down and nuzzles against her neck. He draws his fangs over soft flesh and smells their scents combine. He feels his knot securely locked inside her and for a moment, just a brief moment in time, he can believe she's his.

**Author's Note:**

> The series you see this a part of will be a place for me to house loosely connected Pydia one-shots and pwps that I may upload at some point in the future.


End file.
